The Parents' Review

A Monthly Magazine of Home-Training and Culture

Edited by Charlotte Mason.

"Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life."
______________________________________

Hero-Worship

by G.E. TroutbeckVolume 14, no. 2, February1903, pgs. 81-91

My subject this afternoon is Hero-worship and its importance as an
element in education. Education is, truly, a much debated subject, and
many are the theories put forward by those who consider themselves
experts. The questions are indeed endless, and are, alas, not devoid of
bitterness. I do not claim to be able to expound the subject as an
expert—far from it. But if we are to endeavour to place hero-worship as
an important element and factor in education, we must try to arrive,
very shortly, at some rough-and-ready idea of what we mean by that word
"education," which ever rings so loudly in our ears.

I suppose I am safe in assuming that we all agree on this one point at
least, namely, that education does not mean simply the acquisition of
knowledge, the mere cramming of the mind with a mass of facts,
scientific, historical, or otherwise. We agree, I feel sure, that
education and instruction are not synonymous, not interchangeable
terms. What we do mean by education is the drawing-out of all the
natural powers and faculties, the all-around development, as far as may
be, of the whole man, the just co-ordination of all our
activities—physical, intellectual, moral and spiritual. This alone is
education worthy of the name.

True education may be compatible with a very moderate amount of
"instruction" properly so-called. A highly-instructed person is not
always, by any means, a well-educated one; and conversely, a
comparatively uninstructed person is not always uneducated. "Learning,"
as Hegel points out, "when regarded as a mere process of reception and
matter of memory, is a most imperfect kind of education . . . It is through
thinking that the thoughts of others are seized, and this
after-thinking is the real learning." When all is said and done, is not
the end and aim of all true education the formation of character?

Now I maintain that hero-worship, taken in its right and proper sense,
helps us to learn that reverent admiration for every form of human
goodness and greatness which is an essential element in high character,
and which is inseparable from all true education. Evanescent in its
outward form, hero-worship is, in its inner meaning, one of the most
powerful influences for good that can be brought to bear on the human
being. It is quite as necessary and important that our emotions and our
sentiments should be educated and disciplined as that our intellectual
powers should be developed. What we like and admire is of more
consequence, so far as character is concerned, than what we know. It is
here that the sentiment we call hero-worship has its work to do.

I have had conversations with friends on this subject, and have found
that there are, apparently, many people who are prepared to disagree
strongly with my views. I had feared that what I was about to say this
afternoon was quite disastrously obvious, thick-set with platitudes,
and was relieved to find a refreshing difference of opinion. It is
clear that many people consider hero-worship to be a mild and amiable
form of imbecility, and that, to some minds, the word suggests only
what is silly. Of course we may, if we like, dwell solely on the
exaggeration of an idea, but I propose to speak of hero-worship from
its rational side, for in spite of the occasional follies perpetrated
in its name, it has got a rational side. It is not a mere nonsensical
adoration of some creature of our own fevered brain, of some person
whom we picture to ourselves as a compound of impossible and
incompatible excellencies. No, hero-worship implies the recognition of
a profound truth, and is akin to that insight of the artist of which
Tennyson speaks so finely in the lines:

As when a painter, poring on a face,
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man
Behind it.

It is part of that natural love which to the mediaeval mind was,
literally, the power that moves the universe, and of which Dante writes
in the splendid and incisive way that is his alone, saying that "from
some real thing it draws forth the ideal element."

It is just this form of love, this recognition of what is good, great,
or beautiful, that is the most effective panacea for that besetting sin
of democracy, namely, envy. As Goethe so grandly says: "There is no
remedy but love against great superiorities of others." No unworthy
grudging spirit can hold its own in a soul which has once learnt the
lesson of which hero-worship, with all its sublime follies, is, in a
sense, the alphabet. It is the recognition of excellence that keeps our
thoughts sane and pure, amid the many temptations to pessimism and
cynicism that beset us in times of rapid change like our own, when old
landmarks tend to disappear, and leave us wandering in a wilderness of
new and strange surroundings. I would, therefore, consider hero-worship
mainly in its effect on character, which is, after all, the only thing
that really matters, either in this world or the next. And now, for a
few preliminary remarks on the general subject, remarks which, I hope,
will not appear too far from the point.

Firstly, I will make bold to say that in spite of the famous watchword,
"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," the natural man really abhors
equality, knowing, as he does at the back of his mind, that liberty and
equality are two incompatible things. Inequality of every sort and
description is the law of nature, and this wonderful arrangement just
makes the difference between harmony and monotony.

A right-minded person hates a dead level, and instinctively feels that
it is dull, ugly, uninteresting, and unfavourable to life, both without
us and within. Most of our purest pleasure is derived from the power of
looking up to something above us. As George Eliot says: "The first need
of the human heart is something to love; the second, something to
reverence." A writer of a very different school, Renan, points out very
truly and beautifully, that "a man's moral worth is proportion to his
faculty of admiration." We may feel pretty certain that people who are
without this faculty of admiration have got something wrong with
them—something very precious and sacred is lacking in their moral and
spiritual equipment; they are dreary company, and create an arid waste
around them.

I suppose we all have a Mephistopheles side to us, and although the
"denying spirit" is very useful in his right place, he requires to be
kept in that place with a strong hand. I have heard cynicism defined as
the inability to perceive the ideal element in men and things, and it
is to be feared that at times we are all of us not only unable, but
unwilling to see that ideal element, which, nevertheless, we are bound
to believe to be there. I would fain to plead that the critical habit
of mind should not be too much encouraged in children, that they should
not constantly hear disparaging remarks on the things and persons
around them, that they should not grow up in an atmosphere of
pessimistic reflection. The power of destructive criticism develops
only too soon, and the habit of "sitting in judgment" on everything and
everybody is only too fatally easy to acquire. It is an unpleasant
habit at any age, but odious in youth, to which we look for generous
enthusiasms, and warm-hearted if perhaps undiscriminating, admiration
of great men and great causes. The critical faculty lays us open to
great temptations, because the cultivation of it is often a cheap way
of getting a reputation for smartness, and a talent for finding fault
is frequently mistaken for real ability. As a matter of fact, this
attitude of mind usually characterizes people of inferior character and
intellect, and it might be well if this could now and then be pointed out
to the young, who are naturally given to copy what seems rather "grown
up" and superior! At any rate, we may try and remember the somewhat
mordant words of advice given by Prosper Merimee: "Do not be too
anxious to think the world foolish and ridiculous. It is only to much
so. It is better to have some illusions than none at all."

Now, whatever we may think of the advisability of having illusions, we
may ask: What can be a greater moral preservative or a better
intellectual stimulus than the sentiment which, for want of any other
name, we call hero-worship? I am not suggesting that hero-worship is
precisely an end in itself, but that it is a very important element or
stage in our education, and here I should like to draw attention to one
or two points which indirectly illustrate my meaning. Hero-worship, as
we usually understand it, forms part of most people's mental experience
in their youth, and indeed, belongs almost exclusively to that period,
to be followed only too often by a real and sad fading out of the glow
of feeling as we grow to maturity. We are happy if our hero-worships
pass peacefully into the glorified life of memory without the
shattering of our idols, or the desecration of the temples in which
they were enshrined. We are happy if no trace of bitterness remains
behind.

It is a matter of common experience that, as life goes on, powerful
personalities appear to cease from among us. We are fain to say that
"there were giants in the earth in those days," unmistakeably implying
that there are no more giants left now. The commonplace, the mediocre,
seems to usurp the place of what was remarkable, interesting,
influential—a desolating outlook, truly!

There are many theories we might put forward to account for this almost
universal mental experience, for such it seems to be. Some people will
tell us that the change is in ourselves, that it is internal and
subjective. Either we have lost the freshness, faith and enthusiasm of
youth, or, perhaps, our judgment is more matured, our powers of
observation better trained, the balance between reason and emotion more
evenly held. Or, it may be:

"That the past will always win
A glory from its being far;
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein."

Others, on the contrary, will tell us that there is an external and
objective change, a change in the world and society around us. We are
told that it is an age of respectable mediocrity, that the fierce
jealousy of a democracy is unfavourable to the development of powerful
individualities, and that what we are pleased to call education is
crushing out the last sparks of originality by endeavouring to run
everybody into the same mould, like so many candles. Those who consider
that an alteration has actually taken place in our outward
circumstances might point to the various changes, political and social,
which tend to obliterate distinctions, and to the leveling up or down,
whichever you like, that results from altered economic conditions.

But without dwelling too long on this point, we must admit that whether
we are hero-worshippers suffering from blighted adorations or not, the
disenchantments that lie in wait for us appear to be many, and we
certainly cannot be accused of being unconscious of them, or of failing
to lament them. The rather irritating complacency with which our
so-called "progress" is vaunted, the tiresome and conceited
glorification of modern ideas and "improvements," are counterbalanced,
in many quarters, by a very sufficiently loud-voiced regret for the
past, and by very pertinent suggestions that the past may have
something to do with the wonderful excellence of the present!

However, the most despondent among us must confess that the fearful
general deterioration usually complained of by the inveterate "praisers
of past times" cannot have been going on from generation to generation
in this fashion, for, at the rate, we could hardly expect to find even
the remnants of a world left by now. So let us take heart, and realize,
though perhaps sadly, that it is, mainly, we who change. As we grow
older, we find it hard and irksome to adapt ourselves to different ways
of living and of thinking, such as are forced upon us by gradual
changes of circumstance, and we feel sadly tempted to think that
nothing is as good as it was, and nobody as great. We say, in common
parlance, that we have "seen through things," thereby intending to
imply that we have weighed them and found them wanting. Surely we must
have looked "through things" the wrong way, if we feel that they are
worthless. We have thought only of the "outward and visible sign," and
not of the "inward and spiritual grace." When we really come to "see
through things," our soul will then "understand the great Word that
makes all things new."

But, it will be asked, what has all this to do with hero-worship as a
factor in education? In reply, I would suggest that it helps us to see
what it is that hero-worship may teach us.

It does not follow that a sentiment or a mode of thought is foolish and
useless because, in a sense, we may be said to grow out of it. If, in
later years, we put away childish things, we do not believe that the
childish things have taught us nothing. Moreover, let us be quite sure
that we have "become men" before we put away these things, lest we lose
their most valuable lessons and consolations.

What then can we claim as the special lessons taught by the sentiment
we call hero-worship? First, it teaches us the recognition of merit,
which, as Goethe says, is the true liberality. It is rare, if indeed it
ever happens, that we make a hero of a man from a low or unworthy
motive. A hero, even to the silliest young person, is always someone
who possesses really fine qualities, be those qualities physical,
intellectual or moral. Nobody, I imagine, ever made a hero of a man
merely because he was rich, or for any sordid reason whatever.
Hero-worship is the recognition of some true merit, and that
recognition is in itself of priceless value. But, while insisting that
the natural impulse is to admire and revere what is good, and to love
the things that are more excellent, we should remember that this
tendency, however well marked in sane and wholesome natures, needs
encouragement. There are exceptions to every rule, and there is no
disputing the existence of decadence and depravity among mankind.
Therefore, those among us who have any influence or authority over the
young have a responsibility with respect to the ideals we hold up to
them, and the views of life which, consciously or unconsciously, we
impress upon them. If we are bitter or cynical, if we admire what is
false and unworthy, we hand on the seeds of death rather than the torch
of life. It is, of course, impossible to enter into detail on so wide a
subject as this; examples and illustrations cannot fail to suggest
themselves, especially to those whose calling it is to watch and guide
the development of young minds.

Again, with regard to the acquisition of knowledge and its various
branches, how invaluable is the influence of commanding personalities,
and how potent the faculty of admiration. Does not most of our interest
in history,—nay, even in literature and art, hinge upon a yet keener
interest which is aroused by some heroic figure, in whom a whole epoch,
a whole subject, seems to be embodied? What, for example, would most of
us care for the history even of our own country, if the figures of King
Alfred, Edward I., Henry VIII., Elizabeth, and Mary, Queen of Scots,
were blotted out of it? How many of us would be interested in the
history of the great Civil War without the still-living personalities
of Charles I. and Cromwell? What does a young creature care for the
history of a confused and indistinguishable crowd? Even in what are
called "popular" movements, it is the leader, the inspirer, who is
remembered. As Carlyle truly said, "No great man lives in vain. The
history of the world is but the biography of great men." And indeed,
this saying applies, not only to the history of the world, but to the
life-history of most of the people in it. In our own lives, have not
the powerful personalities with whom we have come in contact made the
crises, the turning-points in the development of our own minds and
characters? Nothing calls out our powers and faculties so fully and so
adequately as personal influence, the influence, direct or indirect, of
someone whom we at the same time love and admire. There are few things
more striking than the effect of a great personality-a hero, if we
will, in developing the latent possibilities in those around him. Many
talents, many moral qualities, seem as though they would remain dormant
save for the vivifying touch of some powerful nature, a touch which teaches
us to recognise greatness when we see it, and which, perhaps, gives us
our first glimpse of our best self. If we look back on our lives in the
past, or consider them in the present, do we not find that whatever of
interest, usefulness, happiness they may contain, derives mainly from
the influence of some person or persons, to whom we, possibly
childishly, have attributed heroic character or attainments? From
hero-worship, too, we may learn something of that virtue which is the
very foundation stone of high and Christian character, namely,
humility. As we contemplate our heroes, we feel that we must say with
Lancelot of the Lake—

In me there dwells
No greatness, save it by from far-off touch
Of greatness to know well I am not great.
(Tennyson, Idylls of the King)

In contact with those whom we instinctively know to be cast in more
heroic mould than ourselves, we find at once our own limitations and
our own possibilities.

And again, hero-worship, the generous, if perhaps uncritical admiration
of great qualities and high achievements, lifts us above mere
generalities, and places our feet on the solid rock of something
historical and concrete. It delivers us from the thrall of those
ghastly abstractions (abstractions such as "Humanity," for example)
which we spell with the largest of capital letters, and which we so
often mistake for true realities apart from realization in the
particular. Does the cult of Humanity never stand between us and an
honest, unselfish affection for individual human beings? Far be it from
me to decry the "enthusiasm of humanity," but we have to learn it by
means of love and reverence for some one person, and a hard enough
lesson it is at best. Do we not feel, many of us, that the one
person—the hero—is much more interesting and loveable than the class or
the mass? An indiscriminate mob of people seems to some minds a highly
unsatisfactory substitute for the one commanding personality which
symbolizes so much. Indeed, it must be admitted that there are natures
to whom the crowd, the great number, is an object of repulsion rather
than of attraction, reprehensible as this may seem to our modern ideas.
To such minds hero-worship is at once a consolation and wholesome
preservative against a hatred of their kind. I claim for hero-worship
that it saves us from hasty generalizations, and, by fixing our
attention on one great and conspicuous character, conduces to an
accurate observation of our fellow-creatures. When we have learnt the
lesson and discerned the meaning, the book is closed. The enchanting
pictures, the inspiring words, live perhaps only in memory, and are
potent only so far as we have absorbed into ourselves their true
significance. We begin to see that this faculty of admiration which
we'll call hero-worship is an unconscious recognition of the supreme and
absolute worth of human personality, a conviction which often needs
strengthening in these days of increased scientific study, for amid an
ever-widening view of the wonders of the universe, we may truly echo
the Psalmist's cry: "What is man, that Thou art mindful of him?"

When thus overwhelmed and confounded before the spectacle of Nature's
forces, it is a source of strength to us if we can perceive the loftier
and more essential features of humanity as illustrated and embodied in
powerful personalities. We are thus helped in that intercourse with
others whereby alone we can attain the full consciousness of self, and
we are helped to that conviction of our own personality which is our
only test of reality. Of course, I do not advance so absurd a
pretension as to claim that we are conscious of the ultimate results
while our hero-worships are in their full swing; but we see afterwards
that they have responded to a deep necessity of our nature, and helped
to lay the foundations on which we may rear a worthy and beautiful
edifice of life.

Finally, I propose to conclude with what at first sight may appear to
contradict much of what I have been saying. It is evident, I think,
that hero-worship in some form or other exists in the hearts of the
great majority of mankind; that it is an almost inseparable part of the
childhood and youth both of the race and of the individual, and that a
change seems to pass over both the race and the individual when
maturity is reached. We all recognize that we have to be taught by
means of the particular and concrete, and then only thus can we rise to
the apprehension of an universal truth. We have to be shown virtues and
capacities as they exist, or appear to exist, in some one individual
whose personality assumes heroic proportions in our mind, and who comes
to have an almost symbolic significance for us.

Hero-worship need by no means disgust us with the greater number of our
fellow-creatures. If we are healthy-minded, it should, in the end, have
a contrary effect. So far from engendering a contempt for the "common
herd," it ought to teach us that, in the sight of God, there is no such
thing as the "common herd." As our notions concerning the world around
us become matured by time and corrected by experience, our ideas of
heroism undergo a change. We find that we transfer our admiration from
the various types of stage-hero, to people possessing virtues and
graces of a less obvious and conspicuous kind. Having learnt to
recognize the heroic, we are now able to see it in the humbler and
obscurer places of life, in what we are pleased to call "every-day"
duties performed cheerfully and conscientiously, in suffering borne
silently. We come to appreciate a less blatant sort of excellence than
that usually displayed by the conventional hero, and we acquire a
greater respect for what is somewhat impertinently styled "ordinary"
goodness—whatever "ordinary" may mean in such a connection. From the
contemplation of what we instinctively feel to be the ideal and divine
element in some one person, we rise to the conviction that the same
divine spark is present, potentially, in all men.

Hero-worship is an antidote against the decay of belief and the fading
of enthusiasm, moral disasters by which, if we are overtaken, we may
indeed exclaim with Hamlet,—

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!"

And lastly, hero-worship, rightly understood, is a defence against the
scepticism which is fraught, not with intellectual doubt only—that were
comparatively of little moment—but with that awful, numbing moral doubt
which paralyses our best efforts and mocks our noblest aspirations. Let
me end with the words of Carlyle: "Hero-worship never dies, nor can
die. Loyalty and sovereignty are everlasting in the world: and there is
this in them, that they are grounded, not on garnitures and semblances,
but on realities and sincerities."

And once more, with Kingsley's lines:—

To God-like souls how deep our debt;
We could not, if we would, forget!"